


From a Distance

by ficbear



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Breathplay, Exhibitionism, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Remote Viewing, Sadism, Sexual Fantasy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air is thick with incense, as always, and the light of the orbs seems to hang on the smoke, pulsing and shimmering in time with the rhythm of his words. The light and smoke coalesce, and slowly the image forms, glimmering at the centre of the orbs' path. He's observed Mitsunari like this a dozen times, but the novelty never fades. Occasionally it even seems a greater pleasure than taking control of the young man directly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From a Distance

Mitsunari's boot makes a dull thump as it slams into the soldier's stomach. He coughs out an apology, and Mitsunari gives him another kick, hard enough to knock him back across the floor. The soldier's face is pathetic, screwed up into a grimace of fear that only makes Mitsunari want to beat him harder. The young general's heartbeat is hammering in his chest, pounding loudly in his ears, urging him on. He kicks the soldier again, harder this time, driving the toe of his boot into the man's flesh savagely. The soldier's yelps are mixed with wheezed apologies and pleas, the words spark Mitsunari's rage as if he'd been set alight.

"Why are you apologising to me?" He takes his sword from his belt, still sheathed, and brings it down across the soldier's back. The heavy thud of the blow echoes around the room. Mitsunari follows the blow with several more, grunting with exertion each time he brings his arm down. "It isn't _me_ you insulted."

"I'm sorry, my lord, I'm sorry-" The soldier is cut off by another blow, this time catching his face. A deep red mark rises on his cheek, vivid and angry, but it's nowhere near red enough for Mitsunari.

"You _wretch_!" He hisses, out of breath now, as he strikes the soldier's face again. "How dare you mock one of your superiors? How dare you insult Gyoubu? I should have you executed for your insolence!"

The soldier puts his hands up, trying to shield his face. "My lord, please, forgive me!"

"It's not my forgiveness you need, you dog!" Mitsunari gives the soldier another vicious kick, and unsheathes his sword. He should really do this in public, to set an example for the rest of them, but there's no patience left in him now. Holding the tip of the blade to the soldier's throat, trying to steady his hand, Mitsunari smiles down at him bitterly. "I'll bring him your head as an offering, when I'm done."

"Mitsunari."

He turns, and finds Yoshitsugu waiting in the doorway, watching him with a typically inscrutable expression.

"How long have you been there?" Mitsunari's voice trembles as he speaks. The exertion of delivering a beating always does this to him, as Yoshitsugu knows well; Mitsunari is only slightly embarrassed to be so obviously agitated in front of the older man.

"Oh, only a little while." Yoshitsugu smiles slightly, and looks down at the soldier cowering on the floor. There's no pity in his eyes, only contempt. "You're tired, Mitsunari. You should dismiss this miscreant and deal with him another time."

"No, I-" He begins to protest, but stops short. His pulse is racing, and that familiar fire is burning through him. Sheathing his sword, he gives the soldier one last kick. "Get out, before I change my mind."

"Yes, my lord, thank you!" The soldier scrambles to his feet, and is gone in seconds.

Yoshitsugu comes closer, close enough that Mitsunari can see the amusement in his eyes. "Now, there are several matters that need your attention–"

Mitsunari turns on his heel and walks away, eager for the privacy of his chamber. "They can wait until tomorrow".

 

* * *

 

The orbs spin, spreading their glow through the darkness of the room. The air is thick with incense, as always, and the light of the orbs seems to hang on the smoke, pulsing and shimmering in time with the rhythm of his words. The light and smoke coalesce, and slowly the image forms, glimmering at the centre of the orbs' path. He's observed Mitsunari like this a dozen times, but the novelty never fades. Occasionally it even seems a greater pleasure than taking control of the young man directly.

Mitsunari lies naked on the bed, his eyes closed, his lips drawn into a frown. One hand works slowly over the length of his cock, and the other clutches the sheet beneath him, twisting it tightly in his fist. The sound of his breathing drifts through the smoke, barely muted, as if the young man were only in the next room rather than the other side of the castle. That sound alone would be enough to arouse Yoshitsugu; coupled with the sight of Mitsunari pleasuring himself, the scene is almost intoxicating. But it could be better.

"My lord…" The young man breathes through barely-parted lips. It's clear just who the lord in his fantasies is, and although Yoshitsugu finds devotion to a long-dead master quite entertaining, he has no compunction about usurping Hideyoshi's place. A little exertion of will is all that's needed to chase that spectre away, and now in its place Yoshitsugu introduces his own image. At first, he feeds Mitsunari only a simple image of their last night together, an unadorned memory of the young man riding him astride the palanquin. As plain as it is, it has the desired effect. Mitsunari's hand moves faster, gripping tighter, and his breath catches in his throat. But he won't be satisfied with a basic memory for long.

The young man groans faintly as the next image washes over him. Now Yoshitsugu has the imagined Mitsunari bound tightly, held in place with bandages that snake out from the older man's hands like the tendrils of some monstrous plant. Strip after strip of bandage winds around Mitsunari's limbs until he can barely move, only struggling slightly against their grip as Yoshitsugu fucks him. The thought of being restrained always sharpens Mitsunari's desire, and tonight is no exception. He works his hand feverishly over his cock, and brings his other hand up to his throat, gripping it lightly. The hint couldn't be clearer; Yoshitsugu refashions the image, letting one of those tendrils of bandage slip up around Mitsunari's neck, tightening it just enough to choke him a little as each thrust of Yoshitsugu's cock pushes him forward.

"Harder…" Mitsunari whispers, tightening his fingers around his throat, pleasuring himself faster and rougher now. "More…"

Yoshitsugu holds off for a moment, savouring the young man's desperation for a little while before he relents and gives him what he needs. Now the image turns sharper, fiercer. The bandages tighten further still, biting viciously into Mitsunari's flesh and cutting off his air almost completely. Yoshitsugu quickens the pace of his thrusts, impaling the young man on his cock hard enough to force a choked yelp from those pale lips with each stroke. The pain, the cruelty, the ever-tightening bonds seem to drive Mitsunari into a frenzy, and he moans aloud now, loud enough that the guards outside must be able to hear him.

"Damn you…" He gasps, as he begins to come. "Gyoubu…"

Mitsunari's back arches, pushing him up from the bed as if he were wracked with pain. He pumps his fist frantically over the shaft of his cock, letting his come spatter across his stomach and chest, and only once the last spray of it has splashed heavily against his skin does the young man open his eyes. He stares up at the ceiling, as steadily as if he were meeting Yoshitsugu's gaze, and something akin to a faint smile curls at his lips.

"Goodnight, Gyoubu."


End file.
